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CCCV.

DEAR FANNY.

“She has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool :

She has wit, but you mustn't be caught so:
Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool,
And 'tis not the first time I have thought so,

Dear Fanny,
'Tis not the first time I have thought so.
“She is lovely; then love her, nor let the bliss fly;

'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing season; Thus Love has advised me, and who will deny That Love reasons much better than Reason,

Dear Fanny ?
Love reasons much better than Reason.

Thomas Moore.

CCCVI.

TO, LADY ANNE HAMILTON.
Too late I stay'd ! forgive the crime,

Unheeded flew the hours ;
How noiseless falls the foot of Time,

That only treads on flowers !

What

eye

with clear account remarks
The ebbing of his glass,
When all its sands are diamond sparks,

That dazzle as they pass ?

Ah! who to sober measurement

Time's happy swiftness brings,
When birds of Paradise have lent
Their plumage for his wings?

Honble. William R. Spence..

CCCVII.

THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS.

Two nymphs, both nearly of an age,

Of numerous charms possess’d,
A warm dispute once chanced to wage,

Whose temper was the best.

The worth of each had been complete

Had both alike been mild :
But one, altho' her smile was sweet,

Frown'd oftener than she smiled.

And in her humour, when she frown'd,

Would raise her voice, and roar, And shake with fury to the ground

The garland that she wore.

The other was of gentler cast,

From all such frenzy clear,
Her frowns were seldom known to last,

And never proved severe.
To poets of renown in song

The nymphs referr'd the cause,
And, strange to tell, all judged it wrong,

And gave misplaced applause.
They gentle call’d, and kind and soft,

The flippant and the scold,
And tho' she changed her mood so oft

That failing left untold.

No judges, sure, were e'er so mad,

Or so resolved to err-
In short, the charms her sister had

They lavish'd all on her.

Then thus the god, whom fondly they

Their great inspirer call,
Was heard, one genial summer's day,

To reprimand them all.

Q

“Since thus ye have combined,” he said,

My fav'rite nymph to slight, Adorning May, that peevish maid,

With June's undoubted right;
The minx shall, for your folly's sake,

Still prove herself a shrew,
Shall make your scribbling fingers ache,
And pinch your noses blue."

William Cowper.

CCCVIII.

THE MERMAID TAVERN.

Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye knowni,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern
Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host's Canary wine ?
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
of Venison? O generous food !
Drest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his Maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can.

I have heard that on a day
Mine host's signboard flew away
Nobody knew

whither, till
An astrologer's old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story-
Said he saw you in your glory
Underneath a new-old Sign
Sipping beverage divine,
And pledging with contented smack
The Mermaid in the Zodiac !

Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known-
Happy field or mossy cavern-
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ?

John Kcats.

CCCIX.

EPITAPH UPON THE YEAR 1806.

'Tis gone, with its thorns and its roses,

With the dust of dead ages to mix;
Time's charnel for ever encloses

The year Eighteen hundred and six !
Though many may question thy merit,

I duly thy dirge will perform,
Content, if thy heir but inherit

Thy portion of sunshine and storm!
My blame and my blessing thou sharest,

For black were thy moments in part,
But O ! thy fair days were the fairest

That ever have shone on my heart.

If thine was a gloom the completest

That death's darkest cypress could throw,
Thine, too, was a garland the sweetest

That life in full blossom could show!

One hand gave the balmy corrector

Of ills which the other had brew'd ;
One draught of thy chalice of nectar

All taste of thy bitters subdued.
'Tis gone, with its thorns and its roses !

With mine tears more precious will mix,
To hallow this midnight which closes,
The year Eighteen hundred and six.

Honble. William R. Spencer.

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CCCX.

MINERVA'S THIMBLE.

· YOUNG Jessica sat all the day,

With heart o'er idle love-thoughts pining;
Her needle bright beside her lay,

So active once !—now idly shining.
Ah, Jessy, 'tis in idle hearts

That love and mischief are most nimble;
The safest shield against the darts

Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble.
The child, who with a magnet plays,

Well knowing all its arts, so wily,
The tempter near a needle lays,

And laughing, says, “ we'll steal it slily.”
The needle, having nought to do,

Is pleased to let the magnet wheedle,
Till closer, closer come the two,

And off, at length, elopes the needle.
Now, had this needle turn'd its eye

To some gay reticule's construction,
It ne'er had stray'd from duty's tie,

Nor felt the magnet's sly seduction.
Thus, girls, would you keep quiet hearts,

Your snowy fingers must be nimble;
The safest shield against the darts
Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble.

Thomas Moore.

CCCXI.

ON OBSERVING SOME NAMES OF LITTLE

NOTE RECORDED IN THE BIOGRAPHIA
BRITANNICA.

Oy, fond attempt to give a deathless lot
To names ignoble, born to be forgot !
In vain, recorded in historic page,
They court the notice of a future age :

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